“Oh, I see.” Fabre was belligerent. Quite right too; he can’t believe what he’s hearing. The minister and his colleague the other secretary have both availed themselves of Caro quite frequently, this summer. “There’s one law for you,” he says, “and quite another for me.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Am I proposing to keep a mistress on the premises?”
“Yes,” Fabre muttered.
Camille laughed out loud.
“Please realize,” Danton said, “that if you move Caro in here, the ministries and the Assembly will know about it in an hour, and it will bring down on us—on me—some very severe and justified criticism.”
“Very well,” Fabre said resentfully. “Change the subject. Do you want to hear what Condorcet has to say about your elevation, Minister, in today’s paper?”
“I hope you won’t edify us with Brissotin ramblings every morning,” Lucile said. “However. Go on.”
Fabre unfolded the sheet. “‘The Chief Minister had to be someone who possessed the confidence of the agitators lately responsible for overthrowing the monarchy. He had to be a man with sufficient personal authority to control this most advantageous, glorious and necessary Revolution’s most contemptible instruments.’ That’s us, Camille. ‘He had to be a man of such eloquence, spirit and character that he would demean neither the office he held nor those members of the National Assembly called upon to have dealings with him. Danton only combined these qualities. I voted for him, and I do not regret my decision.’” Fabre leaned over to Gabrielle. “There now—aren’t you impressed by that?”
“Something grudging in the middle,” Camille said.
“Patronizing.” Lucile reached out to take the paper from Fabre. “‘Called upon to have dealings with him.’ It sounds as if you’d be in a cage and they’d poke you with a long stick through the bars. And their teeth would chatter.”
“As if it mattered,” Camille said, “whether Condorcet regretted his decision. As if he had a choice, in the first place. As if Brissotin opinion mattered to anyone.”
“You will find it matters when the National Convention is elected,” Danton said.
“I like that bit about your character,” Fabre said. “What if he’d seen you dragging Mandat through City Hall?”
“Let’s try and forget that,” Danton said.
“Oh—and I thought it was one of your better moments, Georges-Jacques.”
Camille had sorted his letters into little piles. “Nothing from Guise,” he said.
“Perhaps they’re overawed by the new address.”
“I think they simply don’t believe me. They think it’s one of my elaborate lies.”
“Don’t they get the newspapers?”
“Yes, but they know better than to believe what they read in the newspapers, thank goodness. Now that I write for them. You know, my father thinks I shall be hanged.”
“You may be yet,” Danton said, jocular.
“This may interest you. A letter from my dear cousin Fouquier-Tinville.” Camille cast an eye over his relative’s best handwriting. “Squirm, flattery, abasement, squirm, dearest sweetest Camille, squirm squirm squirm … ‘the election of the Patriot Ministers … I know them all by reputation, but I am not so happy as to be known by them —’”
“He’s known by me,” Danton said. “Useful fellow. Does as he’s told.”
“‘I flatter myself that you will put forward my interests to the Minister of Justice to procure me a situation … you know I am the father of a large family and not well-off … .’ There.” He dropped the letter in front of Danton. “I put forward the interest of my humble and obedient servant Antoine Fouquier-Tinville. He is spoken of in the family as a perfectly competent lawyer. Employ him if you choose.”
Danton picked up the letter. He laughed. “The servility, Camille! Just think—three years ago this spring, would he have given you the time of day?”
“Absolutely not. Wouldn’t have been related to me even remotely, until the Bastille fell.”
“Still,” Danton said, reading the letter, “your cousin might be useful for our special tribunal that we are setting up to try the losers. Leave it with me, I’ll find him something to do.”
“What are those?” Lucile indicated the other pile of letters.
“Those were ingratiating.” Camille waved a hand. “These are obscene.” Her attention fastened on the hand; it looked almost transparent. “You know, I used to give such correspondence to Mirabeau. He kept a file.”
“Can I see?” Fabre asked.
“Later,” Danton said. “Does Robespierre get these things?”
“Yes, a few. Maurice Duplay sifts them out. Of course, the household is wonderful prey for the avid imagination. All those daughters, and the two young boys. Maurice gets very cross. I’m often mentioned, it seems. He complains to me. As if I could do anything about it.”
“Robespierre should get married,” Fabre said.
“It doesn’t seem to help.” Danton turned to his wife, mock-uxurious. “What are you going to do today, my love?” Gabrielle didn’t reply. “Your zest for life is unbounded, isn’t it?”
“I miss my home,” Gabrielle said. She looked down at the tablecloth. She did not care to have her private life in public.
“Why don’t you go and spend some money?” her husband suggested. “Take your mind off it. Go to the
